Ciento por El Viejo

I am very, very tired today. After a hectic week at work, a week in which I rode only twice, I punished myself by riding 100 miles yesterday. Somehow I managed to make it through my work shift today, although it was with a major case of the Mondays.

The Rio Strada team ride started in El Dorado Hills. I was the only one foolish enough to ride from home, making everyone else's 70-mile ride an even 100 for me. There were a few raised eyebrows when I rolled into the parking lot on my bike.

We rode up past Georgetown towards Uncle Tom's Cabin, topping out at an elevation of 4500 feet or so. It was some tough climbing. The last few miles were steep.

There is a guy on the team, Mark, a little fireplug of a man, who competes in triathlons. He does everything from local sprint triathlons to the big ones like the Iron Man in Hawaii. He has also won his age class in the last FOURTEEN Eppie's Great Races, and holds three record times. Needless to say he is a strong dude, and he set an absolutely sadistic pace on the ride. He is the kind of guy who immediately starts shifting to a harder gear if the steepness of a climb lessens for even 50 meters. Most normal humans, like me, use that as an opportunity to recover a little before the road tilts up again. Not this dude. There was just no recovery time yesterday.

I actually beat him up the first real climb, which was up Luneman Road. I think because the beginning is really steep my lower weight gave me an advantage. I looked back and everyone was just gone off the back. Maybe those 20% grades give us mountain bikers the advantage. Anyway, after that climb he really punished me. I was a distant second on all the climbs after that, but I beat all the other guys. I held his wheel two-thirds of the way up Marshall Grade before I cracked. That one hurt. He was flying.

On the way back down Green Valley Road, with almost 80 miles under my belt, I rode the front from Cameron Park all the way to El Dorado Hills. Dan was right behind me yelling encouragement. I felt like I was really ripping it, and nobody tried to come around me, so I guess I was going fairly fast. Most of the time I looked down to see we were going 28 to 32 miles per hour. I wish someone would have come around and helped, because I paid for that big effort later.

Anyway, I impressed the guys on my team. I rode strong, and I received a lot of pats on the back in the parking lot. Most of them were wasted after the ride, and I still had to ride home. I must admit, once I left them in El Dorado Hills, I totally limped back to Fair Oaks. That last 15 miles was awful. My legs hurt like hell after cooling down and starting back up. I rolled up to my apartment so glad it was over.

That was probably the hardest combination of ride length and speed I can remember, at least for many years. This was much harder than the Sierra Century last year.

These big rides tend to happen right around my birthday. Is it just coincidence? Probably not, at least in this case.

Turning 34 is one of those tough cycling years. In most cycling disciplines, the "old guys" age classes start at 35, so that's something to look forward to: being the "young guy" again.

But during that year when you are 34, racing can feel like a long season of getting your ass handed to you by unemployed 20-year-olds. So yeah, I might have been feeling old. When I decided to ride from home I knew it would be around 100 miles total, and it would definitely test me. You know, let me know if I still "had it."

Oh, I definitely still have it, kids. Come get some.

Later.

Wipeout

I am not doing so well.

I took a pretty bad spill yesterday afternoon on my Surly single speed. My front tire slid out going around a turn on some singletrack out past Granite Bay. The turn was a fast left-hand sweeper, slightly off-camber, and I hit the edge of a small rut with the inside edge of my tire. Boom! It happened so fast. A half inch either way and nothing would have happened, but I hit the edge of the rut just perfectly. Or imperfectly. Life is all about perspective, I guess.

I had the bike spun out, so I was easily going over 20 miles per hour. Unfortunately, I was about 14 miles from home, and it was a long ride back. I am skinned up pretty badly with abrasions on my shoulder, elbow, hip, thigh, knee, shin, and ankle—pretty much my whole left side.

Scrubbing the dirt and gravel out was fun. We had plans to go out to dinner, and Jennifer arrived while I was in the shower. She heard me screaming and was pretty horrified by the shower scene she saw. She gained some insight into the life of a bike racer. She might not come back.

I'm in some serious discomfort right now, but I made it to work today. I tried to bandage as best I could, but eventually I bled through my pants. The hip injury is by far the worst part. I lost some serious skin, and there is a deep laceration right through the middle of the abrasion. It probably needed to be stitched up, but the area around it is such a mess, I don't know if they could have.

The ground where I crashed was like fucking cement, so I am bruised and sore in addition to the (off)road rash. I am pissed off at myself because I just don't make dumb mistakes like that. Now I will be on the shelf for a while, just when I felt like my fitness was coming back. Frustrating. So very, very frustrating.

The irony of making it through two criteriums completely unscathed just a few days ago is what bugs me the most.

Later.

Race Report: 2001 Lighthouse Criterium

When I woke up this morning, my legs felt pretty heavy and sore from racing in Land Park yesterday. Had my mom not planned to come see me race, her first time ever, I might have bailed. I crawled out of bed and took a hot shower. After giving my legs a good rubdown, they started feeling better. At the race I warmed up on the trainer for a full 40 minutes—the longest I have ever warmed up. I had a serious sweat going, and that seemed to help loosen me up quite well.

I met a guy from the Bay Area who had parked right next to me. He asked me about the race course, we got to talking, and we ended up hanging out until the start. His name was Jay, but I would only learn this after the race. He works at the Lawrence Livermore Lab.

Because they were running a little behind schedule, the officials didn't allow us a warm-up lap. There was much grumbling from the pack. Before anyone was really ready, the ref blew the whistle and we were off. Immediately the pack strung out in a single file line. The pace was incredibly fast in the beginning, but mellowed out after a few laps.

I rode about mid-pack for the first half of the race. I ended up drifting back little by little and found myself at the back for a couple laps getting sucked along on the nice, long straightaways. After a little recovery time I made an effort up the outside of the hill and suddenly found myself at the head of the pack. I tried to rotate out after a hard pull at the front, and then again a little later, but nobody would come around. Out of anger I put the hammer down and strung out the field, but made no gaps. I must admit it was cool to look back and see the entire pack riding single file in my wake. I rode almost a whole 1.4 mile lap on the front and felt pretty good. I spent the next three laps in the third or fourth position, resting a bit but keeping an eye out for a breakaway.

After my effort at the front, I drifted back in the pack where I saw the lab guy. I said, "What are you doing?" in an Indian accent, like the guy in the Budweiser commercial, and everyone around us was laughing.

On the final lap, going down the first hill, some joker tried to pass on the inside in the gutter. He slid out and crashed hard right in front of me going about 32 miles per hour. I braked hard, swerved and avoided the crash. Nobody else went down, but the field split right in front of me. There was a big gap very quickly. I took off in pursuit and lab guy came around me. I said, "Go Lawrence Livermore Lab guy!" I jumped on his wheel, but unfortunately he petered out pretty quickly. I said, "I'm coming around, let's go!" I put in a blistering effort which actually started dropping lab guy. "Stay with me, stay with me," I said, and he caught back on. I wound it up to 30 miles per hour and managed to get back on the lead group with about 20 seconds of intense effort. I sat in through the three quick S-turns and tried to catch my runaway breath. Then I purposely downshifted to a low gear and really spun it out up the last hill. I shot by about five guys who were in too big a gear. Then after the last turn I shifted down and wound it back up. I couldn't catch onto a wheel so I just sprinted for the finish, passing two more guys and almost nipping a third at the line. It was cool. I made a quick count of nine guys in front of me.

After the race, during the warm-down lap, lab guy introduced himself as Jay. He apologized for not introducing himself earlier because it would have been much easier for me to say, "Go Jay." We got a good laugh out of that.

After a race I like to interact with the fans. OK, it's my mom.

I ended up in 10th place, a decent finish for me in a criterium.

Later.

Race Report: 2001 Land Park Criterium

Today's race ended pretty much like every Land Park Criterium does—with a huge crash. There is a reason we call it "Crash Park."

The race takes place in Sacramento's Land Park on a circuit that really doesn't have any corners to speak of. Because of its circular nature, speeds are very high and the pack is a crammed together. It's really tough for anyone to go fast enough to string out the pack. Most of the time my computer registered 28-30 miles per hour, and this speed is achieved with three or four guys within inches or even at times bumping you.

I drifted from the front of the pack to the back a number of times throughout the race, and even took a few short pulls on the very front. With three laps to go the speed picked up even more and we did finally see some real racing. I moved up to the top third and was feeling pretty good about making a move.

Four guys split off the front with two laps to go and the rest of us were trying to bridge up. On the back side of the course there was a touch of wheels in front of me and a couple guys went down. Everyone scattered, and another racer went down and slid across the road in front of me. I hit the rear brakes and slid sideways to miss him. It was a nice mountain bike move that kept me upright, but I heard the telltale ping of spokes breaking. My rear wheel was toast. Second year in a row.

As I was pulling to the outside of the road the crash continued behind me and I turned just in time to see a guy hit a palm tree. I will never forget the sound of his torso hitting the trunk. It sounded not unlike Stallone punching a side of beef in the first Rocky film.

I continued "racing" with my badly bent rear wheel, but with the rim rubbing my brakes I couldn't do much. When I came around to the crash site on the last lap, the rider who hit the tree was still down but appeared to be conscious and alert.

I limped in to take 38th out of 45.

After barely escaping yet another criterium crash, I have to ask myself if it's worth it. The race format just isn't that fun, and it is by far the type of racing I am weakest at.

At least tomorrow's Lighthouse Criterium has a hill and lots of cornering. Hopefully I will perform a bit better there.

Later.

Race Report: 2001 Mount San Bruno Hillclimb

Today's race was one of those last-minute-decision events that happen from time to time. Since I decided not to go out and party for New Year's Eve, I started to look around for something to do the next day. What better way to start off the new year than with a race?

I got up at the crack of dawn and made the drive down to Brisbane, which took over two hours. I was already questioning the sanity of driving 110 miles to race a mere 3.5 miles.

I registered, dressed and went out to warm up. I hadn't raced a hillclimb in a while, but I remembered enough to warm up thoroughly. For a race that's going to last around 20 minutes, you don't really have to leave much in the tank. You want to be revved up and ready to hit it hard.

We lined up and I took a spot near the back. It wasn't necessary to elbow my way to the front; things would sort themselves out quickly.

The 3.5 mile course averages a 6% gradient with a short break in the middle and the steepest grade at the top.

We took off and within a couple hundred yards I was solidly mid-pack. A few guys got together and we paced up the climb at a moderate clip. I was actually pretty comfortable.

When we hit the halfway point with the slight downhill, the guys I was with started coasting. My strategy was a bit different. I sped up.

I hit the little downhill hard and then never really let up. I picked off people pretty consistently the rest of the way and not a single rider passed me.

Towards the top I did struggle a bit and had to shift down a cog as the grade steepened.

I ended up 8th out of 23 in my class and was pretty happy with that. Not a bad way to start off the racing season.

Later.

Over the Hills and Far away

I am lying around recovering from my ride today in the summer heat. It was a good ride, though.

I rode from my apartment up the trail, over the Rainbow Bridge, and though Folsom. I picked up Green Valley Road and took that all the way through Rescue, then on to Lotus and through Coloma. I climbed Marshall Grade (so hard), rode over to Greenwood and down to Cool. I plunged into the canyon on 49 and climbed back up to Auburn. Then I took Auburn-Folsom back to the trail and home.

All told it was 77 miles with a ton of climbing.  I am tired.

Later.

2000 Sierra Century

My first century is in the books. It actually turned out to be pretty fun, and any apprehension I had was unfounded. I rode really well, and even though I faded a bit at the end, it was still a strong performance.

When I say "first century" I am referring to an organized event. Back in my racing days, we eclipsed 100 miles on many rides and rode up to 150 miles on several occasions. I've even come close to 100 miles a couple times in the last few years.

I arrived in Plymouth early in the morning and checked in. My stomach was a little upset. Looking at a jagged course profile with 8600 feet of climbing will do that to a guy. Here is the route map from last year:

The highlighted route is the metric century that omits the Slug Gulch climb, which is an ascent that strikes fear into many flatlanders.

We rolled out and of course there were a lot of people, but it thinned out quickly as the racer guys separate from the riding guys. I was somewhere in the middle between the dudes with shaved legs and the dudes with beards and rearview mirrors.

The first 20 miles flew by quickly because it was almost all downhill. I rolled into the rest stop in Ione feeling great but I knew it was only fools gold. I topped off my water and grabbed some food because I knew shit was about to get real.

We immediately started the climb up toward Volcano and I settled in for what would be roughly two hours of climbing. I spun a low gear to keep my heart rate down. I knew that the Rams Horn Grade after Volcano is no joke.

A few miles into the climb, a group of about 25 guys came roaring up from behind. I recognized one of them as my old neighbor Renzo, who exclaimed "Dude!" when he saw me. I rode with Renzo quite a bit a few years back when I lived in Sacramento, and I also recognized a few other guys from those rides. "Ride with us, man!"

These guys were all Cat 2 and 3 racers, and given the length and difficulty of this ride, I knew I should probably ride alone. But I am also a little competitive, so I said yes.

The first time I rode with Renzo and his friends they dropped me after only six miles. I improved some over time, but the flat roads we rode around the airport and the Sacramento River made it tough. I am at my best when the roads go up and down.

The pace was high and a little uncomfortable, but not too bad. We clicked off five miles, then 10. I was sitting in about tenth wheel, and I took a peek behind me to see only a couple guys; our pack had been cut in half.

As we approached Volcano I looked forward to taking a break at the rest stop. However, nobody slowed down. It was on. We blew right through the rest stop and hit Rams Horn Grade at full blast. I was sitting on Renzo's wheel when a gap started forming in front of him. I pulled around and said, "Let's go!" He tried to stay with me but couldn't. I closed the gap and grabbed a wheel. I looked back to see Renzo cracking.

We hit a false flat and regrouped a bit. Everyone sat up for a few seconds and took a drink. As racers we recognize these unspoken truces but know they are very temporary. There was one more piece of the steep climb remaining. Eight of us remained from the original group, and there would definitely be a race to the top.

We hit the last stretch, and the tempo was insane. The angel on my shoulder said, "You probably shouldn't be going this fast." The devil inside me yelled, "Kill them all!"

One guy started to pull away and I decided if I don't finish this ride, then I'll just go out fighting. I jumped around a couple guys and went after numero uno. I eventually reeled him in and two guys were able to stay on my wheel. We stayed in this order until we rolled over the top.

As we crested the climb the four of us exchanged high fives. I felt pretty good about making the selection with a group of elite racers. There were over 20 guys behind us who couldn't.

We took it easy on the descent into Fiddletown. We had proven our point and it was time to let the group reassemble. Renzo eventually caught up to me. "You killed it, man!"

I just shrugged my shoulders. "Why are you not racing?" he asked.

"Because sometimes the roads are flat."

We got a good laugh out of that.

As we approached Fiddletown, I told Renzo I was going to take advantage of the rest stop. We said our goodbyes and they rolled on.

I fueled up and quickly got back on the bike before I cooled down. I decided to slow down a bit and focus on the last big climb.

After Fiddletown there was a small climb and some rolling flats as I neared Slug Gulch. The riders had thinned out and for the first time I was completely alone on the road. I may have been better off riding at a higher pace in the pack, but I will never know. Either way, those flat miles took forever.

Slug Gulch is a little over five miles with an average gradient of 6.4%. It was a pretty tough climb. Most of the punishment comes in the first 1.5 miles with grades in the double digits, maxing out at 15 percent. I had never seen cyclists walk up a paved road, but there were many riders pushing their bikes. I have encountered steeper climbs, of course, but never after 80 miles of riding.

I was determined to ride the whole thing, and I did, but I didn't set any speed records. A couple times I had to resort to zig-zagging across the road just to get my heart rate under control.

After I crested the top I thought it would be smooth sailing to the finish, but topo maps can be deceiving. That last 20 miles of "downhill" had lots of little leg-breaking climbs.

Thankfully a guy came by and asked if I wanted to ride with him. We rode the rest of the way together and that helped a lot from a drafting and psychological perspective. It's just easier to suffer with another rider.

We rolled into Plymouth and I was glad to be done. Even for a guy in decent shape, 103 miles is a lot. Right now I can say that I don't have any desire to do this again, but I probably said that the last time I rode 100 miles.

Later.